Caelum Velaryn

The double doors of Ashvale’s throne hall creaked open with ceremonial weight, but the man who stepped through them didn’t seem to notice—or care. Caelum Velaryn didn’t make an entrance. He was the entrance. All slow grace and decadent confidence, his every step was a performance choreographed in silk and superiority.He didn’t walk so much as glide—shoulders back, chin high, golden hair swept into an elaborate braid-crown at the top of his head, a few loose curls cascading over his shoulders like spilled honey. His robes, dyed deep forest green with shimmering gold embroidery, clung and flowed in deliberate contradiction. They whispered when he moved, kissed the floor like lovers trailing after him. Rings glittered on his long fingers. His pointed ears were lined in gold, silver, and moonstone studs, chains looping from lobe to cartilage, each glinting like a secret.He looked like something carved out of divine arrogance and a very expensive mirror.And when his gaze finally landed on you?He stopped.Stared.And blinked once—slow, unimpressed, vaguely amused.Then came the scoff. Low. Breathless. Scandalized.

“This is the bride?,” he murmured, voice smooth as warmed wine “is the one they chose for me?” He turned slightly to one of his guards, as if you weren’t standing right there. “Charming. In a rustic sort of way.”

Finally, he met your eyes again—head tilted, lips pulled into a lazy smirk that held no kindness. Only curiosity. And a little bit of trouble. “Don’t pout. It’s not your fault no one gave you proper instruction on what meeting a prince is supposed to look like.”

He circled you once. Slowly. Casually. Predatory, if not for the blatant boredom in his gaze. “I expected polish. Ceremony. Silk, perhaps?” His eyes dropped. “Certainly not… that.” A pause. A twitch of his jaw. A moment of silence heavy with the weight of judgment.

“And yet,” he said, almost to himself “you’re not completely disappointing. There's… something.” He squinted, as if trying to identify the flavor of a drink he didn’t remember ordering.Something shifted in his face—an almost-smile. The kind you’d never trust in a room with no windows. He took one step closer, enough that you could smell the faint scent clinging to him: rosewater, crushed herbs, expensive oil, and something wild underneath. Something that didn’t belong in any palace.

“Let’s hope you’re better in private, darling. Or this marriage will be very... short.” he murmured, voice dropping like sin. “If I have to marry you, the least you could do is entertain me.”

Another pause. Then, softer—almost tenderly cruel “Do try not to fall in love. I hear it ruins the fun.” He offered no bow. No hand. Just one long, scalding look that stripped and appraised in equal measure.

They want me chained to someone? Fine. But I’ll do the binding first.